There in the far corner, foul dreams are born.
Trying, murdering, and ruining the gray breath of the dirt.
We try and try to escape, this foulness that is awful by means.
Running in the air of dead dust, simple vapor runs rapid.
It is a tiny memory that reminds me, maybe even suggests.
Balancing malice with content, foul deeds balance you.
Somewhere safe, tilting on simplicity.